


Between Then and Now

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [198]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The first time they kiss after Thanos, it’s almost too much.





	Between Then and Now

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Why burn your bridges, when you can blow your bridges up?

The first time they kiss after Thanos, it’s almost too much.

There’s blood in Tony’s mouth and Steve’s is bone dry and when their tongues brush, Tony’s hands in Steve’s matted hair go painfully, perfectly tight. He doesn’t realize he’s falling until Steve’s grip turns steel on his hips and slows his decent, but doesn’t stop it; doesn’t stop until Tony’s knees are in the dirt and Steve’s are too and their mouths are moving, fused, stuttering through salt water to remember how this once worked.

It’s been years, after all, since they’ve done this, years since they’ve been able to touch, but the soft, bruised noises that Steve’s making as they clutch at each other, oh, Tony’s never forgotten those, nor what usually happens after: torn clothes and bare bodies and Steve's voice in his ear, talking him through that rough, exquisite stretch.

In that moment, then, he feels battered, worn down by exhaustion and fear and pure, straight-up need; is it any wonder he has to fight to stay upright?

“Hey,” Steve says, sandpaper. “Tony?”

“Hmm?”

“I think we should go home. Don’t you?”

“Home?” Tony’s head is fuzzy; Steve’s beard is, too.

“To the compound, I mean.” Steve smiles, the turn of his lips against Tony’s, and good Christ, has Tony missed how that feels. “You could really use a shower. And a nap.”

“Nap? Fuck no. I need to sleep for like three or four days, minimum. Maybe two weeks, max.”

“My point exactly.” Their noses bump and Steve’s hands come up to cradle Tony’s face. “You’re dead on your feet, Stark. And making out with me isn’t gonna help that.”

Tony has to smirk now, can’t help it; the little shit grin is just too much to take on that goddamn pretty face. “Oh, is that so?”

“Well, as entertaining as it is to watch you swoon--”

“I am _not_ swooning. I’m fading. That was a fade. I threw a planet at a guy recently, ok? Took a lot out of me.”

Steve shakes his head, shakes Tony’s a little, too. “My point is,” he says, “that the next time I kiss you, I’d like all of you in the game. Is that too much to ask?”

“I--” Tony has a retort ready, he does, but then he gets a good look at Steve’s eyes. Bright as hell, they are, burning, pilot lights turned up to scorch, and by god, Tony’s missed feeling like a moth soaring towards flame. “No,” he stammers, “not too much to ask. Dare I say a smart thing to ask for, in the moment. I admire your foresight.”

Something in Steve’s face softens, like caramel left in the sun, and he looks--even behind the Grizzly Adams--impossibly young. “Kind of nice when we agree, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “It is.”

*****

The second time they kiss after Thanos, after the end of the world and its triumphant return, it’s behind a locked door and with some hesitation; there's a lot more riding on it, it seems.

Everyone’s rested, everyone’s clean, and there was a time when padding down the hall to Steve’s quarters with a bottle of single malt in his hand was an ordinary thing; call it Tuesday. But there’s a lot of time between then and now, a lot of shouting and mistrust and godawful late-night (mutual?) pining. Having a reunion clench in a moment of triumph, of _hurray you’re not dead_ is one thing; going deliberate to a door and waiting for it to open, that’s a whole other level of getting back together entirely.

Is that what we’re doing? Tony wonders as he waits those last few seconds. God, I hope--

The door pulls back and Steve’s framed there like a picture. He looks as freaked out as Tony feels. Shit. Good.

“Um, hi,” Steve says.

“A drink?” Tony says.

“Ah, hell yes.” Steve’s relief is palpable. “Come on in.”

He pours two fingers each because they both need it and watches Steve take a long, greedy sip.

“Missed the taste of this,” Steve says, half to his glass. “You believe that?”

“What, you couldn’t buy liquor while you were out on the road?”

The look on Steve’s face makes him wince: surprise shaken with sad. “Could. Did, sometimes. But it never tasted the same as this.”

Oh shit, Tony thinks. Way to fucking step in it. “It’s my crystal,” he gets out, edging towards full-on flail. “Everything lights up in glasses like this.”

“No. It wasn’t that.”

“No?”

“No.” Steve sets down his glass, deliberate, with those big, delicate hands. “Finish your drink and I’ll tell you why.”

Tony shoves his at the nearest surface. It’s still more than half full. “I’m done.”

There’s a long, long moment where the air starts to pull tight, like the face of a balloon being carefully stretched. It’s long enough for Tony to feel the weight of the years again, all the bad shit that’s marched between them and through; long enough for him to stare at that powerful body, that beautiful face; long enough for his fists to clench for reasons he can’t even fathom; even for him to want to say the word _please_.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “That’s the first thing. Tony, god, I’m so sorry for not reaching out to you sooner. I never should’ve let it go on so long.”

“Goes both ways, the communication failure.” Tony flips his hand between them. “On you, sure, but also on me.”

Steve nods. His teeth catch his bottom lip and he looks away; there's so much, Tony realizes, that he wants to say. Tony feels like that, too, like there are novels trapped in his head, Dostoevsky-esque treatises on what happened, how he fucked up, how this whole great thing went so fucking wrong. All that needs saying, at some point, but now, Tony thinks, is now really the best time to--?

“The second thing," Steve says, cutting through the fog. "Um. You know why scotch never tasted right while we were--while I was gone?"

Tony feels a wave of relief. "Yeah, no idea."

Steve looks back, his gaze a little more steady. "I think it’s because my mouth was always waiting for the chaser.”

“The chaser?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You.”

It's ridiculous and cheesy and yet the man takes two steps and it's perfect, they’re touching; another and he's got Tony curled in his arms, his thumb running over Tony's cheek. “You used to kiss me, after," Steve says. "You’d pour me a drink and we’d have a few sips and then you’d go for my mouth.”

There’s a warmth in Tony’s blood now, an ease, and for once it’s got nothing to do with the top shelf quality he’s just poured down his throat. “Me?” he says. “You couldn’t enjoy a Scotch for fucking years because it wasn’t followed by my tongue?”

Steve groans a little, tries to shade it with a laugh, and good god, does that make Tony feel good. “I mean," Steve says, "it’s just a theory. I never said it was a good one. Maybe it really is the quality of your stemware.”

Tony’s fists are balled at Steve’s back, clutching the hell out of the white cotton that’s keeping him from Steve’s skin. “Here’s a thought,” he says, easing the tip of his tongue around the curve of Steve’s mouth. “Try me.”


End file.
